Rage Against the Dying of the Light
by randomgenius
Summary: In the course of the Wizarding Wars, Neville Longbottom was little more than collateral damage. But that didn't mean he wasn't affected.


**I know I said I was working on a comedy, but this was a little side prompt, and the comedy unfurled from a cute little scene into a full blown story, so... still working that out. Meanwhile, my Neville feels have been cheerfully dominating _everything_ I write. But, 1000+ words! Improvement, yeah!**

_Breakout at Azkaban! Ten Death Eaters Escaped!_ the words blared out at him, stark and mocking.

Neville stared at the headline of the _Daily Prophet_, in a mixture of denial and white-hot fury. He vaguely registered the edges of the paper begin to blacken and smoke, but he really couldn't bring himself to care.

The _Lestranges_ were _free._

Those _monsters_, the ones that had _tortured _his parents into _insanity_, were _free_.

The old, festering pain reared it's head again; the _dangerous_ pain that had been shoved back to a broken, shadowy, chaotic corner of his mind (with good reason). Previously, it had been stifled with the comforting thought that his parent's torturers were now just as lost as they were, trapped in the closest thing to hell on earth. But _now_…

They were _free_. The words beat a mantra in his head. Those _creatures_ were _walking free_, escaped from the _supposedly_ inescapable, and his parents were _drooling_ in St. Mungo's, and he was _way_ past rational by now.

The paper burst into flames, drawing the eyes of everyone in the Hall. He strode out before anyone could comment, keeping his eyes dead ahead. Neville didn't want to see the teachers' pity, or the Slytherins knowing smirks, or his Housemate's surprise at the fact that _Neville_, that clumsy little near-Squib, was practically _glowing_ with repressed fury.

Except, of course, this Neville wasn't the one they knew. This was Neville, the boy who had been forced to grow up with parents who '_aren't all there, darling'_. This was the son of Frank and Alice Longbottom, two brave and powerful Aurors (or so he'd been told). This was the boy who had long since been buried, under the weight of guilt and out of his Gran's eternal dissatisfaction.

Not that any of them knew about that, about _him_. Not that they'd ever know, because he wasn't ever telling them. He didn't want their pity, their sympathy, because _they'd never understand_.

Nobody ever would. Not even Harry, the Tragic Orphan, because Harry had made _peace_ with the fact that his parents were dead. Neville, however, had to live with the fact that his parents were _alive_, but their minds were _gone_, and they'd _never_ get better.

He shuddered.

If he'd looked back, the school would have had a rude awakening as to exactly _who_ Neville Longbottom was.

But he didn't, because he wasn't about to let dense schoolboys or naïve bullies be the ones to finally shatter his carefully-constructed wall.

(Well, that, and the fact that he was pretty sure the teachers would be more understanding about a _paper_ spontaneously combusting than _people_ spontaneously combusting.)

Harry found him in the Room of Requirement, about three(? Maybe four? He'd lost track.) hours later, directing every jinx, hex, curse, and potentially-harmful charm he knew towards two dummies (the latest set the Room had supplied him), with their brother already dust and metal on the floor. He could see Harry's face out of the corner of his eye, and could tell that Harry was surprised he could manage this level of destruction. A little voice that had never escaped the confines of his mind snarked, "_Yes, Harry, you're not the only one capable of magical flare-ups_."

The second target exploded with a neat little poof, and he concentrated his fire on the last without pause.

He wasn't really casting _spells_ by now, so much as channeling the pure rage and magic pounding in his head into pure destruction. He ignored the fact that this wand, which had never really been in tune with him, was whistling from the strain.

Finally, the last dummy's head exploded in a shower of fluff and metal.

Neville collapsed against a wall, panting, and Harry opened his mouth, but Neville stopped him with a look.

He really wasn't in the mood.

Instead, Harry slid down next to him, and they sat there for Merlin knows how long, until the rage ebbed out of Neville and left him feeling just… tired. He tried to stand, but his legs gave out from under him; then he began to regret his outburst, as he finally recognized the signs of magical exhaustion. Harry helped him to his feet, thankfully sparing him the sympathetic eyes that most people gave him, and together they struggled down the hallway towards the Gryffindor Tower.

He managed to pull himself through the entrance, and was grateful to see that the common room was nearly empty (apparently, it was a lot later than he thought). The only people still there were Hermione, Ron, and the twins; Ron (who he guessed was accustomed to this, what with having to deal with Harry all the time) leapt to his feet and relieved Harry in helping him up to their room. He collapsed on his bed, vaguely registering Ron going back out. As the exhaustion claimed him, he could hear their murmurs in the common room, but he wasn't worried.

He trusted that Harry, of all people, would be able to keep a secret.

Neville woke up alone the next day, sometime towards noon, and he savored the silence. The storm of fury and chaos had cleared, the wreckage of resignation, deep sadness, and the confused, primal _pain_ that always clawed it's way to the surface whenever he dwelled upon his parents for too long. He sat there for a long while, reconstructing his mental wall, once again burying the emotions that had prompted his explosion.

He had dealt with this long ago, and made peace with it; such was Neville's life.

When he emerged from the dormitory, his friends were waiting for him.

**Oh, Neville. You make me so sad.**


End file.
